Squire Nortons Songa poem by Charles Dickens

SQUIRE NORTON'S SONGCharles Dickens

The child and the old man sat aloneIn the quiet, peaceful shadeOf the old green boughs, that had richly grownIn the deep, thick forest glade.It was a soft and pleasant sound,That rustling of the oak;And the gentle breeze played lightly roundAs thus the fair boy spoke:-

"Dear father, what can honor be,Of which I hear men rave?Field, cell and cloister, land and sea,The tempest and the grave:It lives in all, 'tis sought in each,'Tis never heard or seen:Now tell me, father, I beseech,What can this honor mean?"

"It is a name, a name, my childIt lived in other days,When men were rude, their passions wild,Their sport, thick battle frays.When, in armor bright, the warrior boldKnelt to his lady's eyes:Beneath the abbey pavement oldThat warrior's dust now lies."

"The iron hearts of that old dayHave mouldered in the grave;And chivalry has passed away,With knights so true and brave;The honor, which to them was life,Throbs in no bosom now;It only gilds the gambler's strife,Or decks the worthless vow."

Squire Nortons Songa poem by Charles Dickens

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